A debacle with ice and a shortage of rum—
phone calls rose through the elevator chute like steam
as courses played tag with the oven.
Doused in alcohol and set aflame,
from the bright holiness of Easter morning only the moon survived,
the rest succumbing to midnight char we dirtied our evening wear with.
A meeting of the minds—theorists, poets, baroque composers,
a choice francophone, three fifths of Montreal’s harpsichordists,
nine counts of eyeglasses, eight of them round wire,
and barely anyone dressed for the century.
Not one mention of Immanuel Kant. Chopin’s portrait
taped to the living room wall, crowned with streamers,
where a jazz record proselytized to deaf ears.
The francophone, donning his mustache and waistline apron,
drove the kitchen like cattle until it yielded warmth,
flavor, bread for hands to pick at like that morning’s communion.
The table overflowed with gin-soaked mouths.
A musicologist in a tuxedo swept shattered wine into the dustpan
as a French-hornist, equally tuxedoed, egged him on
and the poets sold themselves off as librettists for hopeless operas.
Curiosity was generated for Baudelaire—Chopin watched on.
A handful of cigarette breaks later, pursued nine stories down,
the evening threw its tantrum of fatigue and spared only our most tolerant.
Dangling off the battered kitchen couch,
we delved into the flautist’s humble fifing origins,
the politics of F major, its conspiracy with horns,
and viola-related microaggressions on mafia-owned sidewalk.
Vermouth penned its Symbolist poetry in our stomachs,
an elegy for the peace our hangovers would replace.
No one knew a thing about physics.
